Clothing Optional
by Audrey Roget
Summary: So tell me, House: shoes. On or off?" Written for Cuddy Fest 09.


**Clothing Optional**

by Audrey Roget

_A/N: I confess, I was already writing a story about House and Cuddy watching porn together, and this Cuddy Fest prompt (#165: Cuddy finds porn in the doctor's lounge DVD player and watches it) was the kick I needed to finish my first House MD fic. Please to enjoy and also feed back._

"Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the scheduling mix-up. Apparently, all of the conference rooms and lecture halls with video equipment were booked this morning…"

iThis has House's dirty little fingerprints all over it/i, Cuddy fumes silently, keeping that thought to herself as she addresses a half-dozen of her senior human resources managers. "As you know, the state's EOE commission has issued new guidelines on sexual harassment, and I wanted to preview this instructional video with you before the in-service trainings for staff begin next week."

In the background, clacking noises and low, arrhythmic grunts prompt Cuddy to raise her voice and her chin slightly. "And thank you, doctors, for sharing your lounge with us. We'll be out of your way as soon as possible."

Kutner and his opponent turn briefly from their foosball game with a casual nod of largesse to the suits - and to acknowledge their boss' unspoken order: _Keep it the hell down_.

"So. Without further ado." Cuddy points the remote at the 25" Zenith in the corner.

Rather than the expected New Jersey state seal materializing on the screen, however, the video seems to skip the typical introduction and launch directly into a role play. The actors – a man and a woman possessed of the usual level of training-video talent – are seated across a desk from each other. The woman's outfit of thigh-high boots and sheer lace dress are clearly inappropriate for a professional setting, and the man ogles her unabashedly. He finally tears his eyes away to glance at what appears to be her resume.

"So, I see here that you've worked _long _and _hard_ for several bigwigs."

"Well," the girl giggles, "They weren't _so_ big. I've seen bigger!" And here, she stares pointedly at the man's crotch. "But I've never uh…been _under _one that big before."

The man grins broadly. "And did you bring any work samples with you?"

"Well…I came prepared to _show my stuff_." At that, she stands, props one stiletto-heeled boot on the chair and begins to disrobe.

There are muted murmurs among the HR staffers. Cuddy frowns slightly. How far do these training videos go to make a point, anyway? The murmurs give way to a choked titter here and there as the actress gets her dress unbuttoned. Abruptly, the scene cuts directly to two entirely naked actors panting heavily and writhing on the desk. The repressed amusement gives way to lewd snickers and one reproachful "Oh, for God's sake!" before Cuddy can jab the power button and end the show.

Finding her voice, Cuddy stammers with all the dignity she can muster, "I…I think we can call this an object lesson in the topic at hand." Out of the corner of her eye, she notices that Kutner and his foosball competitor have quietly slipped away.

As the group rises and files out of the lounge, John Sanford from the communications office shoots Cuddy a thousand-watt leer and gives two thumbs-up.

###

The door to 221B Baker St. swings open almost before she's finished knocking. Cuddy's arrival has been anticipated.

"I think you left something in the fourth-floor doctor's lounge," she begins, head cocked humorlessly.

"Me? I never lounge on the fourth floor."

"Although I would've thought, what with your own flat screen, you'd have just kept to your cave." Cuddy strides swiftly past him into his apartment, shoving lightly on House's chest just because it feels good. To shove him out of the way, that is. The empty DVD case propped open atop the entertainment center taunts her. She grabs it and spins back toward him, holding up the incriminating evidence. "Oh, look! I wonder if these two belong together…" She dramatically fits the disc into the packaging and holds it aloft in sarcastic triumph.

"_The Boffice_? Ah, oh, I see what they did there," House snickers disingenuously, pointing at the DVD case. "Clever, huh? Gee, I'd love to have a job as a porn titlist." He reaches for the box. "I was wondering where that'd gotten to. Don't usually lend out the new releases."

Cuddy pulls the video out of House's grasp at the last second. "Did you have to bribe your lackey to play 'Let's Humiliate the Boss,' or were badgering and threats sufficient?" She catches his smirk as he heads back to the sofa without yanking the prize from her. That dismissive tug of his lip makes her want to scream. Instead, she takes a cool breath and tries another tack. "Well, in that case, you can have the all the fun of seeing my shocked and horrified expression in person, while we watch it together." For House, this should be about as fun as watching triple-X with his mother. Not much more fun for Cuddy, but sometimes payback is bittersweet.

A flicker of satisfaction sparks in Cuddy's gut as an unidentifiable something – not amusement, for sure – passes across House's face when he turns and lowers himself onto the couch. His expression shifts again and he flashes her a filthy grin. "Fine. You want the authentic stroke-movie experience? Hand me that box of tissues."

"Shut up and watch," she snarls, dropping onto the sofa next to him. "And keep your hands where I can see them."

"Okay, we'll have video night, but I'm fresh out of popcorn," he snarks, nestling back into the cushions and kicking his heels up onto the coffee table. "I might have some strawberry-flavored condoms around here somewhere, though. You know. For _your_ pleasure."

With no rejoinder but a faintly imagined taste of fruity latex on her tongue, she points the remote at the TV and presses play.

A butterscotch stallion type, shoulders of his dress shirt straining at the seams, is flirting with a petite blonde receptionist, who should have considered a camisole and another few inches of skirt. They smile broadly and woodenly at each other, complaining how _rough_ their _jobs_ are and how they can't wait until tonight when they _get off_. Nudge nudge. Wink wink.

Next scene, the stallion's got blondie's tush perched on his desk. Her ankles are locked around his back. His pants are drooping around his knees, though his shirt remains fully buttoned, his tie crisply knotted.

"She's just there to take some _dick_tation," sneers House, his expression too casual to be genuine.

"They're still mostly clothed," Cuddy observes clinically, though with a hint of curiosity.

"If you can call a skirt that short 'clothed'," he leers, then suddenly turns to her with mock sincerity. "Is that _your_ problem?" he asks, eyes deliberately lingering over the deep silky vee of her blouse. "You tuned into the Hustler channel one day and thought it was the Home Shopping Network?"

Ignoring the predictable, Cuddy continues her analysis, aiming for sexless yet seductive tones. "It's kind of illicit, isn't it? I mean, they've barely managed to uncover the necessary parts and they're going at it in an office during business hours. Obviously they don't want other people to know they're hooking up. They don't even have time to get undressed, let alone get a room."

"I'm sure whatever they do in that office is very high stress. Lives are clearly at stake. Or maybe they're just too horny to get their clothes all the way off," House counters.

Cuddy shrugs. "Could be. That's a pretty hot idea, actually." She glances sideways. "Two people suppressing their desire for one another day after day, trying to pretend there's nothing between them, until ka-BOOM!" She makes a fireworks gesture with her hands, "And to hell with the full-body press."

Amusement evaporating, House's reply turns edgy. "Why the hell do you keep reading motive into this crap? It's _porn_, Cuddy. There's no character development – there's no character, period. It's just bodies, hormones and the occasional chain-link apparatus. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am."

"And that's all this is to you?"

"That's why I like it," he insists, his voice inching up a tone or two.

Finding House's obvious discomposure an odd and unexpected turn-on, Cuddy calls him out. "Not buying it, House. You can't deny that the brain is the real power train behind the human sex drive. I'm not ascribing artistic intent to these…performers…just pointing out that certain kinds of scenarios are attractive to us for different reasons – and you also can't deny that certain situations trigger desire in some people and not others."

"Pussy. Dick. Big tits. _Hers_. That's my situation of choice. The end."

He's gone beyond mere unease, Cuddy realizes: House's blunt vulgarity is meant to drive her away. Not that that might not work, if she couldn't see through his patented bluster. Instead, it only intrigues her further. Pressing her lips together, Cuddy holds her breath for a beat, waiting him out. She never ceases to be amazed at House's inability to swallow what he dishes out with such evil delight. When a crescendo of squeals coming from the television interrupts their tense silence, Cuddy hits the pause button on the remote to shut them up.

"Then again," she continues, glancing at the couple frozen in gravitationally inadvisable _flagrante delicto_, "They may not be hiding from anyone. Their co-workers probably know full well that they're sneaking off for some nookie every chance they get. Maybe keeping some clothing on just ups the eroticism. Or possibly they enjoy a tactile fetish." Her voice takes on a melting quality. "The feel of warm skin through a filmy blouse, breasts straining against an underwire bra…panties pulled tight and out of the way, her nylons sliding against his bare ass…"

Eyeballs rolling in derision, he mutters, "Lay off the estrogen smut novels, Cuddy, it's causing your brain to putrefy."

"What?" she demands in a non-denial denial. "Sensuality isn't supposed to enter into erotica, either?"

"Erotica," House snorts. "This is what women don't get about _porn_. It's not about making your tummy flip-flop or your heart go all gooey as a prelude to cosmic, yet sweaty, spiritual ecstasy. _Porn_ is a distraction. An eraser."

"It…helps you with your pain?"

"Eases the throbbing for awhile – well, the throbbing in my _leg_ anyway." He tries to make them light, but House's words are tinged with a palpable bitterness.

Cuddy considers this possibility, doesn't discard it entirely. But he wants her to accept the facile explanation too quickly; he's hoping to distract _her_. "And maybe it helps numb other kinds of feelings, like fear and disappointment," she muses quietly. "Maybe good ones, even, that you can't handle, like…hope…or attraction."

As he's about to jump in and verbally shit all over her assertions, Cuddy adds, "So what is it your all-powerful intellect can't conquer? What feelings are you trying to deaden with _this_?" she gestured at the dispassionate, digitized pseudo lovers.

He opens his mouth to deflect, to lie. She can see it, and then sees that his moment for obfuscation has evaporated. House remains silent, and Cuddy can identify in his expression a confusion of emotions – anger at letting himself be drawn into the conversation, embarrassment that his wit has failed him, and something infinitely more tender, and sadder, too. His eyes roam everywhere but her face, until he finally grabs the remote to hit stop, making the screen go black.

_Oh_.

To give them both a moment of privacy, she rises to switch off the TV altogether. She picks up the DVD cover and stares at blankly it for a moment, drawing her thoughts and her courage together. Tossing the box onto the coffee table, she turns to stand in front of House. Cuddy studies his angled features like a schoolgirl, she fears, admiring the slope of his neck and the way his t-shirt clings to strong shoulders and arms. She recalls the electric feeling of his beard abrading her skin. Finally resting on her eyes in his, she lets him see the raw edges of her own uncertainty and desire.

She hikes up her narrow skirt slightly and plants a strappy pump next to his knee. "So tell me, House: shoes. On or off?"

A cautious light rises to his eyes, and he replies throatily, "On."

Cuddy nods. She draws her skirt up further, enough to show the tops of her thigh-highs. Her blood rushes loudly through her veins as she watches House's gaze slide from the tip of her toe to the shadowed parting of her thighs and down the other side. Cuddy clears her throat lightly, catching his eyes with hers again. Emboldened by the unmistakable longing she now finds in that startling shade of blue, she sinks onto the couch, straddling House's hips. Arching her neck and stretching her arms behind her, she rocks back onto his knees and grips the slender black heels of her shoes. "Oh yeah, good choice," she agrees.

House reaches to cup Cuddy's ass and draw her tightly against him. Her eyes flutter closed as warm lips and a thousand tiny pinpoints brush her throat. When Cuddy tries to muffle an achingly needy sound against tightened lips, she feels him answer with a grin against her clavicle. About to lose her balance, she releases her heels and pitches forward, throwing her arms around House's shoulders. The look in his eyes tells her that where this is going is becoming more inevitable by the second.

Cuddy's head dips as House surges up to meet her. He's off the mark at first, lips landing at the corner of her mouth. She counters, tilting her face as he slides and centers. After a short, exploratory exchange, they realign, eyes closed, lips parted, tongues almost shyly making each other's acquaintance. She caresses the nape of his neck, fans her fingers across the back of his head, and their kiss deepens. A blast of heat chases up her spine as House sneaks his fingertips beneath her skirt and drags them along her inner thigh. In response, she wriggles in close and strokes his back through the soft worn cotton of his shirt.

Ending the kiss with a nip to her lower lip, House declares, "Doctor Cuddy, I'll give you thirty minutes to get off me before I report you for sexual harassment – Oh, wait, I mean thirty minutes to iget me _off_."

Rearing back a bit, Cuddy rakes her eyes over him with indignation tempered by lust. "It's a dirty job," she nods, "but somebody's gotta do you."


End file.
